


Green and Gold

by orphan_account



Series: the elder grandsons of Finwë [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros appeared at his side. Fingon smiled at him briefly and brushed their shoulders together. Finrod came to stand at his left, the two of them flanking him while he watched his little brother being welcomed back into the ranks of the Noldor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green and Gold

The thin grey curtains were lightening, indicating that the night had come and gone. Fingon yawned and rolled to his side, snuggling into the warm body on his right. To his left, Maedhros stirred, and a heavy arm draped over his waist, splaying low over his stomach. Maedhros buried his face in Fingon’s neck, breathing softly.

Dim light spilled across the bed, bathing them in a soft glow. He saw Finrod’s golden hair laying fanned across the pillows, tangled and wild from the night before.  

“Go back to sleep, Káno.” Maedhros mumbled into his neck. “We have some time.”

He woke next to Maedhros’ soft voice, and rolled onto his back with a yawn. Finrod was brushing out his hair, sitting cross-legged at his right. Maedhros was nowhere to be seen, but the bed was still warm where he’d lain.

“He went to fetch us breakfast,” Finrod said, looking bleary-eyed. “Your father asked us to join him for the council at noon.”

“Duly noted,” Fingon yawned. “Here Ingo, give me that brush.” Finrod obligingly shifted on the bed till his back was to Fingon, and held out the brush.

“My thanks,” he said through a yawn. “I can’t for the life of me remember to braid it before I go to sleep.”

“To be fair, you were distracted last night.” Fingon teased, running his fingers through the golden strands to get the worst of the tangles out. Finrod’s hair was silky smooth, and tangled worse than a bird’s nest.  Brushing it took a while, especially with the length the three of them were letting their hair grow now that practicality was no longer a concern. To have hair this long again felt like the greatest of luxuries.

He was just securing the last of the braids when Maedhros came back, bearing platters laden with food.

“I see you’re awake,” he said, pressing a kiss to Fingon’s cheek while setting the tray on the bed.

Fingon blew him a kiss and secured the last braid in Finrod’s hair.

“There Ingo, all done.”

Finrod shifted back around to face Fingon and Maedhros while the latter settled on the bed.

“You spoil us,” he told Nelyo, tearing off a hunk of bread. “You really do.”

Nelyo shrugged, but there was laughter in his eyes.

When they finished their morning meal, noon was but a scant few hours away.

“My father always picks the worst time,” Fingon observed. “If he bid us come in the morning, we would have the rest of the day for our own pursuits, and if he bid us come in the evening, we would have the morning for ourselves. Yet he always picks noon.”

“I do believe he doesn’t want to keep us from our beds,” Maedhros offered, pulling a tunic over his head. “You tend to be in an exceptionally foul mood when you’re interrupted during a tryst.”

“As if he  has any idea about us,” Fingon snorted gracelessly. “He may be wise, but he’s blind when it comes to his children.”

“Blind, no.” Finrod threw a blue shirt at Fingon. “I believe that’s yours. No, I think he merely doesn’t see what he doesn’t want or need to see.”

“It’s Nelyo’s,” Fingon said, tossing it at Maedhros’ head. “And that does have some merit. But surely he must have noticed that we have forgone all pretence of a second bedroom, let alone a third.”

“Oh, he has.” Maedhros plucked the shirt from his head, and shrugged. “Probably mine.”

“What do you mean, he has?” Finrod asked. “And why do you have a shirt in Fingon’s colours?”

“He told the servants it was because of the horrors we survived in Beleriand,” Maedhros echoed Fingon’s snort. “I think he believed it too.”

“He’s got a shirt in your colours too,” Fingon draped his arms over Finrod’s bare back, preventing him from putting on a shirt. “It suits his colouring most admirably.”

Maedhros grinned. “I do believe I was wearing it last night, when you all but tore it off me.”

Finrod, to their surprised, blushed scarlet.

“Ooh, I like this.” Fingon breathed, watching the flush spread down his neck. “Do tell us what has you so flustered.”

“It’s naught.” Finrod muttered, but his cheeks were flaming. Fingon kissed his neck, prompting a shiver. His hand snaked around Finrod’s chest, splaying over his stomach possessively, and delighted in watching the rosy colour spread further down.

“Do you like that idea?” Maedhros cocked his head. “Me wearing your colours?”

Finrod breathed in sharply, though his face only grew redder. He ducked his head, refusing to meet Maedhros’ gaze. Maedhros grinned, looking almost feral with.

“Don’t tease,” Fingon scolded, though he was in fact doing just that, snaking his hand lower at a pace that could only be called torturously slow. He licked a stripe up Finrod’s neck, stopping just before he reached the shell of the ear.

“Fuck,” Finrod ground out, hands clenched in the fabric of his trousers. “Káno, we don’t have time-“

“My father can wait,” Fingon muttered, fumbling with the laces of Finrod’s trousers one-handed. “We’ve been at his beck and call for weeks now.”

“We’re Princes of the Noldor,” Maedhros argued, though there was a distinct lack of conviction in his face. “We must set an example…” His voice trailed off.

“Come here,” Finrod said through clenched teeth as he tried to control the shivers that racked his body whenever Fingon’s breath ghosted over his ear. His pupils were blown wide, only a thin edge of grey remaning.

“Or I could just ravish Ingo on my own,” Fingon offered when Maedhros didn’t move, clearly torn between duty and the tempting spectacle playing out before his eyes.

“If you put it like that,” Maedhros gave in, crossing the room and capturing Finrod’s lips with his own. His hand cupped the back of Finrod’s neck, pulling him closer. Fingon hummed in approval, and tugged them towards the bed.

Just as Fingon worked a hand down Finrod’s trousers and Maedhros was sucking bruises onto the soft skin of Finrod’s neck, someone knocked on the door.

“A moment!” Maedhros, being of them all the most composed, called out. He hastily untangled himself, and pulled his discarded shirt back on.

“Cover yourself,” he hissed as he rose from the bed. Fingon hastily grabbed a sheet, and tried to arrange himself and Finrod into a less compromising position, though there wasn’t much that could be done with one sheet.

He opened the door slightly, and looked around it. An indistinct voice sounded in the Hall, speaking in a low undertone that Fingon couldn’t make out. A messenger, most likely.

“Understood,” Maedhros said. “Thank you.”

He closed the door, and turned around, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“The time of the meeting has been changed,” he said with a heavy sigh. “It’s about to start.”

“Fuck,” Fingon swore, sitting up.

“Get dressed,” Maedhros tossed them both a shirt.

“I hate you both,” Finrod groaned. His face was still flaming, and his hair had come undone from his braids again. He looked the very picture of wanton debauchery, only exacerbated by the painfully obvious tenting of his trousers.

Fingon groaned in sympathy. “At least we’ll be wearing robes,” he offered.

“Not. Helping.” Finrod ground out.

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Come on, sit up.”

They got dressed in uncharacteristic silence. Even Fingon refrained from his usual teasing, since he was, as Maedhros had predicted, in an unbearably foul mood.

“Next time he changes the time of a meeting I’ll ignore him,” he muttered darkly.

He was met with silence, and he chanced a glance at Finrod. His cousin looked the very epitome of uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, Ingo.” He whispered. “I did think we had more time.”

“I know that,” Finrod muttered from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t apologize, Káno.”

The room was already filled with people when they entered. To his surprise, Fingon spotted some of Fëanor’s sons there as well, and several Lords of Gondolin that he didn’t think wanted anything to do with politics. Lucky bastards Maedhros had called them, for having that choice.

“Prince Nelyafinwë!” The herald announces. “Prince Findekáno! And Prince Findaráto!”

They took their places around the table, uncomfortably aware of the throng of people in the room that weren’t normally there.

“What’s going on?” Fingon hissed in his father’s ear. “You said it was a normal council.”

“It was,” Fingolfin whispered from the corner of his mouth. “But I received important news.”

Finrod wass still looking mildly uncomfortable at his side, and Fingon squeezed his shoulder subtly.

Finrod glared at him. “Please don’t,” he whispered, new spots of colour appearing on his cheeks. “It’s hard enough-“ he cut himself off, but too late. Fingon snorted loudly, managing to time it right in a natural lull in the noise. The entire room stared at him. He stared boldly back, raising the famed Finwian eyebrow.

Fingolfin cleared his throat loudly, drawing attention back to him. “I’m sure you’re all aware that this is no ordinary council.” His voice was grave, and his face unreadably blank.

“I received news this morning, news that was of great personal import to me.” He glanced at Fingon. “And, I believe, to all of you who are here who would not normally be.”

He paused, for a moment.

“Námo sent word that Prince Turukáno, former King of Gondolin, has been released from his Halls.”

The room exploded into noise.  Fingon’s throat suddenly felt tight, and his eyes prickled with tears. On the other side of the table, a number of Gondolin Lords  - among them two of the famed Balrog Slayers – were weeping openly

A foot nudged his, and he looked up to see Maedhros staring at him.

“Are you alright?” he mouthed silently.

Fingon nodded, feeling a tremulous smile break out on his face.

Fingolfin who had sat back down while the room celebrated, rose again. A tense silence spread over the room quickly, as everyone waited expectantly.

“May I present to you,” Fingolfin said, turning to gesture at the great door. “My son.”

The doors opened, and chaos erupted. Everyone rushed to the door at once, shouting and hollering. Being situated at the other side of the room, Fingon knew his little brother was standing there, but seeing him seemed an impossible task.

He rose from his chair, expecting to have to wrestle his way through the crow to get even a glimpse of his brother. Instead, they parted for him as he approached. He had no idea what he looked like, but it was enough to let him pass through.

Like water, the crowd parted before him and closed ranks behind him. He couldn’t see beyond the few people directly in front of him, but the shouting was dying down.

When the last person stepped away, he froze.

His brother was waiting for him, looking at him with a half-expectant, half-challenging look on his face.

“You look better than the last time I saw you,” Turgon quipped.

Fingon punched him on the jaw. When he staggered back, he caught his brother’s shoulder and steadied him. He was looking at the ground, trying to regain some control of himself.

“Fuck you, Turno.” He muttered, and pulled his brother into a crushing hug. “You fucking bastard, you weren’t supposed to  _die.”_

“If it helps, I tried not to.” Turgon’s voice was muffled by the fabric of Fingon’s shirt, but the way his shoulders were shaking was telling enough. Fingon just held him tighter, tucking his head under his chin and letting the tears fall onto dark brown hair.

A moment later, Turgon pulled away, wiping the tears from his face. A bruise was already blossoming on his jaw, and he poked it gingerly.

“Thanks for that,” he said. “Really, I appreciate it.”

“You deserved it,” Fingon told him, tugging at a dark lock of hair affectionately. He stepped away, and jerked his head at the avidly watching crowd. “Go on.”

“What?”

“Go greet your beloved subjects, you dolt.” Fingon heroically resisted the urge to whack him on the head. “You didn’t think they just happened to be here, did you?”

Maedhros appeared at his side. Fingon smiled at him briefly and brushed their shoulders together. Finrod came to stand at his left, the two of them flanking him while he watched his little brother being welcomed back into the ranks of the Noldor.

“I’m going to go.” Maedhros said quietly. “It won’t let up for a while, and he doesn’t want to see me anyway.”

“I’ll come with you,” Fingon said, linking their hands. “I can talk to him later.”

Finrod shrugged philosophically. “I liked your brother, Káno, but we were only good friends before grandfather died.”

Fingon glanced back at his brother one more time. The Two Balrog Slayers were all but dancing around him with excitement, and all three of them were openly weeping. He’d been truly loved as King, more so than Fingon ever had been.

His mind was quite firmly derailed from that train of thought by Finrod, who grabbed him by the neck of his tunic and hauled him in for a searing kiss.

“Ingo,” he gasped out. “what-“

“Payback,” Finrod grinned. “Also, to distract you from your thoughts.”

Maedhros was suddenly at his back, warm hands under his shirt and tugging at it. “Off with that,” he murmured.

Fingon obligingly raised his arms, and Maedhros yanked the shirt off. Finrod kissed him again, hands at his shoulders, and Maedhros-

Maedhros set his teeth into his neck, biting down softly. Fingon yelped, and shivered when Maedhros immediately soothed it with his tongue, kissing the mark gently.

“Come on,” Finrod said, and took his hand with surprising tenderness, given his earlier impatience . “To the bed.”

Fingon was  _thoroughly_ distracted for the next few hours. Several times. Not all of them in the bed.

Pleasantly exhausted, and quite literally covered in bite marks, he stretched out on the bed with a yawn. Though his muscles didn’t ache, precisely, there was a definite sort of tingle to them that wasn’t altogether displeasing.

“Don’t go to sleep, Káno.” Maedhros said, though he was yawning as well. “You wanted to talk to Turno later.”

“I know.” He replied. “I’ll go find him lat-“

The door slammed open, revealing a wild-looking Turgon. Fingon yelped, grabbing at a sheet to cover himself. Maedhros did the same, though he managed to keep the embarrassing noises to a minimum.

“Oh Valar,” Turgon said, wide-eyed. “I didn’t-“

“Káno?” Finrod came in, naked as the day he was born, purple-red bruises like a collar around his neck. “Where did you leave my-“ he trailed off, flushing a deep red.

Turgon clapped a hand over his eyes. “Oh Valar,” he repeated, more forcefully this time.

Fingon wrapped the sheet around his waist, and tossed a tunic to Finrod.

“Come on,” he said, propelling Turgon towards the door with one hand. “Move.”

 

He closed the door behind him. “I’d appreciate it if you knocked next time.”

“You-“ Turgon squeaked. “And Maitimo. And-“

“And Ingo, yes.” Fingon said patiently. “Did you not know that yet?”

“ _No._ ” Turgon hissed. “I thought that only you and Maitimo were-“ He swallowed.

“Fucking?” Fingon offered dryly.

“Yes-No!” Turgon squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t want to hear it, Finno.”

“Don’t tell anyone.” Fingon said quietly. “We had enough trouble when it was only Maitimo and me.”

“Does Father know?” Turgon asked.

“No! And don’t tell him!” Fingon grabbed Turgon’s shoulder. “It was accepted in Middle-Earth. They hold to tradition here, and it’s bad enough for Ingo that he’s known to be friends with Kinslayers.”

“I won’t.” Turgon shook his head. “Just- Don’t tell me anything I don’t want to know.”

“Not a word,” Fingon promised, feeling some of the tension that had built up in his shoulders ease. “Well and good, then. Did you want to talk?”

Turgon shrugged. “I was hoping to spend a quiet evening with my friends and I thought you might like to be invited, but you seem busy.”

“Not really-“ Fingon started.

“Very busy!” Finrod shouted from behind the door. “Extremely, very busy!”

Turgon sighed. “Can I talk to you tomorrow?”

Fingon nodded. “Knock first, though.”

“I will.” Turgon clapped him on the shoulder. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Until tomorrow.”

Only when Turgon disappeared around the corner did Fingon open the door again. He stood there for a moment, feeling oddly suspicious of the empty room.

“What-“

Maedhros pounced on him with a predatory grin.

 


End file.
